City of Dreams (81 page)

“Jennet? Is that her real name?”

“Aye. When I first knowed her she be Mistress Jennet in her father’s house. Then Mistress DaSilva in her Jew husband’s. She wasn’t Squaw until years later. Beautiful she be, and almost as skilled with the knife as her father. Never mind that the men of New York would have had her in the ducking chair for touching a scalpel, much less the rest of it.”

“What was the rest of it?” Martha’s narrow bed occupied almost the whole of the little room. Roisin lay on a bit of canvas spread on the floor beside it, propped on her elbow and looking up at the old woman. “How did she go from Jennet to Squaw?”

“Once I had a big black lump on my face,” Martha Kincaid said. “Ugliest thing you ever saw. Me husband threw me out in the street jus’ so’s he wouldn’t have to look at it. Christopher Turner, Mistress Jennet’s pa, he cut that lump away and it ain’t never come back. Not even now I’m a wrinkled old hag. That’s how clever he was. And her, she was almost the same. Might have been the same if she weren’t a woman.”

“Did they catch her doing surgery?”

“No, they never catched her. Lots of things happened. But you ask me, it was Ellen what did it.”

“Who was Ellen?”

“Young girl, only twelve. Her pa got her breeding, and only thing she wanted be to get rid of the babe. Three months gone Ellen was. And God help me, be me as talked Mistress Jennet into trying to help her.”

“And did she help her?” Roisin held her breath waiting for the answer.

Martha shook her head. “Mistress Jennet tried, God knows. But the girl bled like a hog with its throat cut, and quicker than you can blink, she died. Suffered plenty first, though. Last words she spoke, she cursed Mistress Jennet. Wished her in hell. And the way I sees it, that’s pretty much where Squaw DaSilva’s been ever since.”

“You’re sure she was only three months gone? The babe hadn’t yet quickened?”

“‘Course I’m sure. Didn’t she come to Martha Kincaid’s the very first she knew? They all came to Martha’s, come to that. Ah, lass, in the old days—”

“I could have helped her.” Roisin said the words softly, watching for the other woman’s reaction.

“Squaw DaSilva? No, lass. Not once a curse be spoken.”

“No, the girl. Ellen.”

Martha slipped off her clogs and swung her legs onto the bed. “Aye, maybe you could have, lass, seeing as how you simples. Thing is, we knowed about the potion as sometimes expels the babe.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. There are many potions. None of them work for certain sure. I know another way. My mother taught me. And her mother taught her.”

“Aye, so you said. But—”

“Earlier, in the taproom, you acted like you knew about me.”

Martha cocked her head and smiled her toothless smile. Young ones like this, full of juice and joy whatever their troubles, they thought they knew everything. Some pleasure there be in showing them bein’ old meant you knew a thing or two. “’Course I knows. Soon as I heard you goin’ on about the English makin’ the Irish slaves, I knew. Yer a papist, ain’t you, lass?”

Every part of Roisin cautioned her to deny the charge. Her Scots father had died in the rebellion they called the ’45, hanged, drawn, and quartered for fighting to put the Catholic Bonnie Prince Charlie on the English throne that was rightfully his. She’d taken in the tales of Cromwell and his heretic murderers raping and pillaging their way through Ireland along with her mother’s milk. Besides, what difference did it make what she said to old Martha Kincaid?

None.

Except that she’d made a solemn promise to the Virgin when she begged for help with the plan to get to the colonies by offering herself as an indenture. The New World was sure to be as Protestant as any the treacherous English ruled, and thus a dangerous place. Nonetheless, if anyone asked her straight out, Roisin swore to the Virgin, she would not deny the true Church. “I’m a Catholic, yes. And I will be until the day I die.” Defiantly she made the sign of the cross and thanked the Blessed Virgin for helping her keep her vow.

Martha Kincaid sighed. She’d had her little moment of triumph. Truth to tell, she didn’t care two shits in a bucket what religion the girl claimed. Or anyone else for that matter. “Fair enough, lass. You can believe whatever you wants and pray however you pleases. Don’t make no difference to me.” She stretched out her hand to the candle, ready to snuff it out.

Roisin reached up and grabbed the old woman’s bony wrist. “Wait. Is that all you meant? When you said I was ’one of those,’ you only meant I was a Catholic?”

“What else could I have meant? What you be thinking, lass?”

Roisin shook her head, letting Martha go and sinking back to the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You just wait, lass, you’re not goin’ to sleep yet. You said them potions don’t always work, same as I know. So that means— Sweet God Almighty, lass, do you know how to cut the babe out?”

Roisin nodded. “I do,” she said. “My mother taught me.”

Martha sat straight up in the bed. “And back where yer from, the men don’t punish women for doin’ such things?”

“Of course they do. But that’s because they’re Protestant heretics.”

Martha shook her head impatiently. “Religion! Men’s tricks, all of it. And it be men don’t want us to get rid o’ their babes.”

“Protestant heretics,” Roisin repeated, remembering her mother’s words. “They’re the devil’s servants. That’s why they oppose a woman ridding herself of the thing that’s inside her before it becomes a child of God. The True Church doesn’t condemn a woman for ridding herself of a babe before she feels it move. Not before the soul is put into it. Before that she can be rid of it and commit no sin.”

Impatiently Martha shook her head. “Forget about churches and all that nonsense. I want it plain, lass. Are you telling me you know how to rid a woman of whatever it is that’s inside her afore it quickens? Without the poor creature bleedin’ to death, or swilling up her guts until she bleeds from her belly as regularly as she does from her twat?”

“I do,” Roisin said softly. “I promise you, I do.”

“Holy heaven,” Martha said softly. “If that’s true, Jan Brinker be freeing us all, not just you and Cuf.”

IV

It had been a long time since she’d walked down Hall Place. Squaw DaSilva paused by the barbering pole, touched it for the briefest moment, then lifted the brass knocker and let it fall with an insistent clatter.

Her youngest sister came to the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m touched by your warm greeting, Wella. May I come in, or shall we conduct our business in the street for all the neighbors to see and hear?”

Wella stepped aside and Squaw entered the house. She stood in the hall a moment, overcome with memories. The portraits painted by the itinerant phizmonger still hung either side of the front door exactly as they had for all her growing-up years. Marit Graumann and Lucas Turner. Dear God, what must they think of all they’d seen?

From the outside the entrance to her father’s study and surgery looked exactly the same, but now there was no case of instruments in the corner, and no consulting chair across from the desk. “I see you wasted no time making new arrangements.”

“Is that what you’ve come for? To inspect what’s left? We sent the surgical instruments to the ironmonger on Golden Hill for selling on. To a man. Would you have preferred we give them to you?”

“Save your venom, Wella. That’s an old charge. It no longer either wounds or threatens me.”

“Jane says you assisted Andrew. That you stayed with him the whole time, and that you were as bloody as he was when it was finished.”

“For heaven’s sake, Wella, would it have been better to let the boy do it alone? Or perhaps you would prefer it hadn’t been done, and we’d simply allowed Luke to die.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if Morgan—”

“Morgan did all he could.” The
Fanciful Maiden
had sailed on the morning tide and saying his name made her heart ache, but she let nothing of her pain show. “It’s Andrew I’ve come to speak about. And Jane.”

“Very well, say what you came to say.”

“I shall. But not standing here like a kitchen maid.” She sat down in what had been her father’s favorite chair, the one closest to the fire. After a moment or two, Wella sat across from her. “That’s better. Now, here is what I propose. First, we must send Andrew away.”

Wella gasped. “Away? But he’s the head of the family now that Papa’s gone and Luke is unwell.”

“I promise you, Luke will recover and assume his proper role.” She didn’t bother to say that she was head of the family now that their father was gone. And if she were not, the role would fall to Morgan. Only actions mattered, not words and not titles, a lesson any woman would do well to learn. “Andrew is full of self-reproach. He blames himself for what happened to Luke.”

“But that’s nonsense! It was Morgan who—”

“I told you, Wella, it was neither Morgan’s fault nor Andrew’s. Luke was the victim of a tragic accident. It was Caleb Devrey’s undeserved good fortune to be the one my son was able to save. Yet another thing for which we may despise our cursed cousin.”

“But everyone says—”

“Everyone lies. Dear Lord, did you learn nothing in this house? Were the things said about Papa true because they were said?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“Andrew,” Squaw said, bringing the conversation back to what she wished to discuss. “He must go to Edinburgh.”

“Why?”

Heaven give her strength. “I have told you why. Because he is ill with self-blame. If he remains here he will be tormented by the sight of his father attempting to recover, feeling pain in the legs he no longer has, learning to hoist himself onto the stool with only his arms and two sticks, and in the dead of night, when he thinks no one hears, weeping over the loss of half his body.”

“How terrible you make it sound,” Wella whispered.

“I promise you, it will be worse than I describe it.”

“If that’s so, why did you do it? Perhaps it would have been better to let him die.”

“I didn’t do it,” Squaw said. “Andrew did. And someday, when Luke is able to dandle a grandchild on what’s left of his lap, or smell a joint roasting at the fire, or laugh at a jest, he will bless his son for giving him back even half a body with which to live out the rest of his days.”

Wella rose and went to stand beside the window. “You’re very sure of yourself. But then, you always were.”

“Yes. And mostly I’ve been right. I’m right this time as well. Andrew is a genius with a scalpel. Someday he may be as great a surgeon as Papa, or even Great-Grandfather Lucas. If he goes to the school of medicine in Edinburgh, he can add the skills of physic to his knowledge. He’ll be the first man in New York to be trained in both. Perhaps the first in all the colonies.”

“Bede’s son Samuel is studying medicine at the College of Philadelphia. Samuel,” she said again. “Raif’s twin.”

“I know who Samuel Devrey is, Wella.”

“And you know he’s studing with Dr. Shippen.”

“Upstarts,” Squaw said. “Colonials. Whatever Samuel gets for himself in Philadelphia, it won’t be the equal of a degree from Edinburgh.”

“Andrew’s very clever,” Wella said, twisting her hands. “He’ll learn more than Samuel wherever he goes.”

“Nonsense. I always heard Raif was the dull twin. Samuel has wit in plenty. Anyway, the Devreys have nothing to do with this.”

“But if—”

“If what? Speak your mind, Wella. And stop wringing your hands. You’ll twist them right off the wrists if you continue.”

“Andrew’s a surgeon. Papa trained him. I think that’s what he wants to do.”

“Ah, at last. The heart of the problem. You’re fond of the lad, aren’t you? Stop fussing, Wella. There’s nothing to prevent him from using the skills he learned from Papa.”

“But no one practices both physic and surgery.”

“Exactly my point. Andrew will be leagues ahead of everyone else. Because no one has ever done it, does that make it a bad idea?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps it does.”

“I am sure. It does not. Andrew must go to Edinburgh.”

“The new King’s College here in New York, will it not suit?”

“It’s not yet finished building. Besides, I’ve heard nothing of plans for a school of medicine. And as I already told you, a colonial degree does not compare to one from Edinburgh.”

Wella said nothing.

“Edinburgh,” the eldest sister said again. “Like his father. It’s the only possibility. And the suggestion must come from you. Andrew won’t accept it from me. I shall pay, of course.”

“What about Jane?”

“She shall nurse her father. When he is well enough so that Sarah and perhaps another slave can look after him, Jane may marry the strange little preacher I hear she fancies, and go live with him in West Chester. I’ll supply an adequate dowry.”

The preacher was a disciple of John Wesley, whose doctrines—called Methodism because adherents claimed to live by rule and method—were setting much of England in opposition to the established Anglican Church, and had recently spread to the colonies. “You hear a great deal,” Wella said. “But then you always have.”

Dear God, must everyone speak to her with the same bitterness? Even her own flesh and blood? “I survive, Wella. And so shall we all. Will you go to Andrew with the plan and see that he accepts it? I think he will be easy to persuade. Secretly he’ll be longing to leave all this unhappiness behind.”

“Will I tell him the money comes from you?”

Lord grant her patience. “Absolutely not. Say it’s part of his inheritance from his grandfather. Tell him you found a box of
daalders
and
louis d’or
among Papa’s things, with a note saying they were for Jane and Andrew. It will also save us trouble when the matter of the dowry comes round.”

Wella walked with her sister to the front door. Then, just before she closed it, she said quietly, “Good-bye, Jennet. Thank you.”